


Break Into Pieces

by wllw



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Codependency, Emotional Manipulation, Ficlet Collection, M/M, Prompt Fic, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2018-12-12 09:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 7,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11734155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wllw/pseuds/wllw
Summary: Scenes from a dysfunctional partnership.





	1. Knifeplay

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of prompt fills. Prompts are in chapter titles.

He saw Felix again that night.

It had been a while. Normally if he pushed himself as far as his body could go and avoided sleep until it was absolutely necessary then by the time he lay down he'd be too exhausted to remember much of anything. But in the confines of the transport ship there wasn't much to do other than patrol the corridors and listen to the hum of the engines or the inane chatter of the crew. And so, Felix came.

"Hello, _partner_ ," he said, and his voice was sharp as a poisoned knife.

Locus didn't answer, of course. There was no point in it, and it wasn't as if Felix had ever cared about what Locus had to say. He simply closed his eyes and slid a hand into his boxers. He'd learned by now that it was futile to fight it.

He could feel Felix's weight on him so vividly he almost couldn't breathe. He could hear the metallic slide of the knife against its sheath, feel the coldness of the blade on his skin almost as it were really there. As if Felix were really there. Locus stopped breathing, let himself go utterly still except for the slow stroking motion of his hand as he imagined the pressure of the knife sliding across his skin. Along the line on his chest where Felix had gotten careless once and pressed a little too hard. Along the knot of scar tissue on his shoulder where Felix had buried a throwing knife during an argument.

Felix was still talking, of course he was, but Locus couldn't hear the individual words any more, only focus on the low, mocking cadence of his voice. And if it wasn't quite as venomous as it had been, if he could imagine a slight hint of warmth underneath, then what did it matter? Locus wasn't about to forget the sharpness of his blade.

He came quietly, and for a moment there was nothing in his world except the sting of Felix's knife as it slid into his chest.

But it was over far too quickly, and when Locus opened his eyes again Felix's image was already beginning to fade, like a ghost he'd just exorcised. He didn't bother trying to hold onto it. He only turned and buried his face in his pillow.

Monsters didn't deserve the luxury of grief, after all.


	2. Second Chances

It was only after everything was done that Locus turned on Felix.

"You didn't tell me there were civilians in the base," he growled. He stepped forward and Felix jerked away from him, stiffening.

"Didn't I?" Felix said. There was a tremor in his voice, beneath the carefully constructed front. "Must have slipped my mind."

"I told you. Lie to me one more time—"

"And you'll leave?" Felix spat. "We both know you wouldn't last a week out there without me. Or have you forgotten how well you handled being alone the last time?"

"I can always find—"

"No." Felix's voice went low and dangerous, and it made something twinge in Locus' chest. "You won't. What makes you think you'll find someone else who'll put up with with your unstable ass? When not even Siris could, in the end?"

That's not what happened, Locus wanted to protest, but the words got stuck in his throat. Felix's expression softened, and he laid a hand on Locus' shoulder, almost gently.

"Hey. Look. They knew the risks when they came to a fucking military base, okay? They were just as involved here as everyone else. It didn't make any difference, and I just didn't feel like dealing with your crazy hang-ups this time. I mean, our orders were to take no prisoners, weren't they?"

"Yes," Locus said, because it was true. So why was it so hard to get his voice to work, like wading through molasses?

Felix's face lightened immediately. "Good. Glad that's settled," he said brightly. Locus supposed that it was, because he felt too tired to argue. The floor was slick with blood, but he couldn't look away from Felix's eyes.

"No more lying, Felix. I mean it."

"Of course. Don't worry, partner," Felix said. And god, he even sounded sincere, with his hand still on Locus' shoulder, heavy and warm. It made Locus' skin crawl, and, as always, he didn't push it away.


	3. Things Unsaid

"Honestly, what would you do without me?" Felix asked, tightening his fingers around Locus' neck a little — not choking him just yet, only enough to feel the rapid pulse beneath his skin.

"I'd be able to get some bed rest, for one."

Locus' voice sounded tired, strained, rather than his usual forceful growl, and it made Felix's hands tremble. His heart had been hammering in his chest ever since he'd seen Locus fall, those few eternal moments between the gunshot and the sickening sound of his partner crumpling to the ground.

Felix shifted a little to put more weight on the stitches on Locus' abdomen. Locus stiffened at the motion, his pulse quickening under Felix's fingers. But he didn't try to push Felix away.

"Yeah, sure. You'd be lying dead in a gutter on a planet so fucking insignificant it doesn't even have a proper name, asshole."

He'd killed every last one of those motherfuckers, not even taking the time to make sure it hurt, carried his partner away, pressed his knife to the doctor's throat so she'd know not to fuck up, with his heart pounding in his ears and his insides twisting achingly in his gut all the while, all because his goddamn asshole of a partner had had the audacity to get himself shot, because—

_I need you._

_I need you I need you I need you._

But there was no reason for Felix to say so. Not with Locus lying under him, too weak to stand or fight him or push him away and not even trying. Not when Felix knew how to keep him there.

"Good thing I'm not going anywhere," Felix said, letting his voice go almost tender. "Right, partner?"

He leaned down to press his mouth against Locus', and of course Locus let him.


	4. Survival

"We need to get out of here," Isaac said through gritted teeth, and yet Ortez remained there, slumped against a rock. He'd lost his helmet somewhere in the mess out there, the aliens had fucked up his face real good, and he wasn't fucking moving.

"They're all dead," Ortez whispered. His voice was weird and empty.

"Yeah, and we'll be too if we don't fucking _leave_."

"We left them to die." Which, okay, was technically true, but going back would have been suicide and Isaac certainly wasn't going to get himself killed for a bunch of idiot soldiers, not after all the effort it had taken just to get himself and Ortez to temporary safety.

"We got separated from our squad. It wasn't our fault. Listen—" Isaac reached out to pull him up, shake some sense into the fucking lunatic, and—

" _No_." Ortez's hand darted out to grab Isaac's wrist, right where the plasma needle had pierced through.

White-hot pain jolted through his arm. He dropped to his knees, and when the looked up Ortez was — fuck. Ortez, covered in blood and grime with his face all carved up, Ortez who he'd watched mow his way through waves of Grunts, snipe Elites from miles away, tackle a fucking Brute and live — Ortez was staring at him with wide eyes and gritted teeth with his hand tightening around his wrist, and with a sudden, crystal clarity Isaac knew how easy it would be for him to snap and crush Isaac's arm in his grip like fucking cardboard and fuck fuck _fuck_. His heart pounded in his ears, his eyes stung from the pain, his stomach churned like he was about to throw up, and he couldn't let it show.

"That's war, Ortez." He fought to keep his voice calm, his breaths even. "Not everyone makes it back."

But Ortez only stared at him, glassy-eyed, and Jesus fucking Christ, of all the people in his useless goddamn squad he just had to get stuck with the goody-two-shoes with a broken brain. Isaac should leave him there to get torn apart by aliens, it would only serve him right, but the thought of facing that hell out there alone made something in his stomach twist.

"Look. Sam." Isaac reached out to grab Ortez's shoulder with his other hand, and if his fingers were slightly shaking, his grip a little too tight, it didn't matter. Ortez was looking at him like he was a fucking lifeline, and for a long, breathless moment the explosions, the rumble of alien ships, the smell of burning corpses all faded into the background. Isaac's world narrowed down to the pain in his wrist, to the pounding of the blood in his ears. To the intensity of that helpless stare fixed on him. "You're supposed to be a soldier, right? You can't do your duty if you're too busy moping over a few insignificant deaths, and you certainly can't do your duty if you're a fucking corpse. Our squadmates simply weren't good enough to do their jobs. You want to do something about all this? Then be a goddamn _soldier_ for once."

It took an eternity, but finally Ortez's grip on Isaac's wrist relaxed, his shoulders slumped, and Isaac slowly let out the breath he'd been holding.

"It'll be night soon," Ortez said. His voice was even, clipped, like an obedient little soldier. Good. "We should be safe here for a while longer. We can make our move once it's dark."

Isaac nodded, shakingly.

Later they would fight side by side, trying to claw their way out of the hell their world had become. But for now they sat in their shitty little foxhole, bodies pressed together, and listened to the sound of each other's breaths.


	5. Breathplay

Felix's back slammed into the wall with a thud and a sharp ache, and he began to laugh.

"Oh? Did I hit a nerve, _partner_?"

"Shut. Up."

Locus' hand felt warm and heavy against Felix's throat, but his grip was slack. Felix couldn't let him notice the tension in his body, or the way his breath quickened.

"Yeah, no. I'm not gonna just stand here quietly while you fucking throttle me, you goddamn lunatic. Is this what you're into? Are you getting hard right now?"

Something twisted in Locus' face then. Something dark and visceral that made the heat grow in Felix's gut, stole the air from his lungs. His heart raced in his chest and all he wanted was to dig his fingers into Locus' skin, strip away all the righteousness and the stoicism and the doubts to lay bare the raw, lethal brutality underneath. He wanted with every nerve in his body, with every breath he took. And when had Felix ever denied himself anything?

"Oh, I bet you are," he said, and he felt his lips twist into a smile. "I mean, this is all you've ever been good for, isn't—"

" _Stop_."

Locus' voice had lowered to a menacing growl, the way it always did right before the bodies started falling. He tightened his fingers slightly around Felix's neck. Pushed him a little harder into the wall. God, he could kill Felix like this, crush his windpipe without a second thought. Felix had seen him choke people with the very fingers now on Felix's throat, hold some asshole down until their pathetic spasms died out, and he'd burned every second of it in his memory. Locus could kill him just like that, and he _wouldn't_ , and Felix needed to see, he needed to know—

Later, he'd have to remind Locus of the rules — no violence between partners. Remind him of what could happen when he lost control of himself. But that could wait. Felix brought a hand to rest over the one wrapped around his neck and gave it a little squeeze.

"Make me," he said, and Locus did.


	6. Happy Endings

"Fuuuuuck. If I'd known these kinds of jobs paid so well, I wouldn't have wasted all this time going after two-bit bounties."

Felix had spread out the money on the bed with a sparkle in his eyes like an overexcited child, and now he was looking over his prize, making the sorts of noises Locus only ever heard accompanied by teeth on his neck and nails on his skin.

"God, a few more of these and we'll be able to retire to our own private planet. Can you imagine?"

Locus couldn't. But Felix was in a good mood, which meant no poisonous barbs, no casual, careless remarks that weren't supposed to cut so deep. So he remained quiet.

"I want to have my own continent," Felix went on, without waiting for a reply. "A huge house, like the ones you see on TV. With a television the size of a billboard. And a big bedroom with mirrors on the walls and ceiling. Maybe, like, one of those new antigravity floating beds or something. I have no idea how they don't make you seasick, but goddamn do I want to try."

He went very still for a moment, then his head snapped up to pin Locus with a piercing gaze. "God, how nice will it be to fuck you on a real bed for once?" Felix sprang upwards, quick as a viper, moved to face Locus, and began to advance on him. Locus stepped back until his calves hit the bed frame, and Felix followed. "Not one of these shitty hotel beds, I mean. A nice, fancy one. Doesn't that sound fun?"

It didn't. A whole future all planned out, with no room for Locus' input. There was no place for someone like him in a world with no war, violence, or death. Not that it mattered, he supposed. Felix would never be happy living like that. There would be no place for him there, either. Perhaps someday he'd come to realize it too.

"Siris was just holding us back, you know. This is where the real money is."

"Felix—" Locus began, but Felix silenced him with his hands on Locus' shoulders. He pushed him down onto the bed, and Locus didn't resist.

"Shhh. Shhhhh. We don't need him, Sam. It's fine."

It wasn't fine, but Felix's mouth was soft against his — no teeth or nails or poisonous words this time, just a small, satisfied smile, and Locus found himself melting into it. The bills crinkled under his back, and Felix was already half-hard when he began grinding his hips against Locus'.

"We're the good guys, right?" Felix whispered against his mouth. "So we're gonna have a happy ending. Isn't that how it works?"

Locus didn't know. But for a moment, as Felix ran his hand along Locus' cheek and leaned down to kiss him again, he almost wanted to believe it.


	7. First Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: suicidal thoughts.

On the third day, they stumbled across a crashed Pelican. It lay there like a corpse, between the trees and half-covered by the underbrush, and they were so out of it by then that they only noticed it when Gates tripped on a piece of debris embedded in the ground. There was no sign of the pilots, but they found crates of supplies in the hold, and so they sat there side by side, eating old MREs and keeping an eye out for any movement in the vegetation. With food in his stomach again, Ortez almost felt like a human being for the first time in days. Until he closed his eyes and saw his squadmates lying dead on the charred ground, the burning light of the orbital laser right where their base should have been.

"We should be far enough ahead of the scouts," Ortez said, once they were finished. "It should be safe enough to rest here for a few hours."

Gates didn't reply. He simply kept staring into the distance as he'd done since the moment they'd stopped.

"I can take first watch. Then—"

" _Fuck_ that."

It was the first thing Gates had said in hours, and he spat it out with a vehemence that startled Ortez.

"Gates—"

"No, seriously. Fuck your goddamn perfect soldier bullshit. You think this is gonna stop the aliens from killing us both?"

"We're not going to die, Gates. They said reinforcements will be here eventually."

"And you still believe that bullshit? You actually fucking think they care about the lives of two expendable soldiers? They _left us_ , Ortez. They're not _coming_." He dropped his gaze, and his voice went quiet in a way Ortez had never heard from him before. "Fuck. Fuck this. Might as well shoot ourselves now and spare the aliens the trouble."

He was holding his pistol, Ortez realized with a sudden clarity. He was turning it over in his hand, looking at it with a strange, distant gaze, and for one single moment the world came to a stop around the glint of sunlight on the barrel, the chill of the blood coursing through Ortez's veins.

He moved before he was even aware of what he was doing, reaching out to grab Gates' wrist. Gates started. He looked around him like a man who'd just been woken from a dream before his wide-eyed gaze settled on Ortez.

"Don't..." Ortez began, though he felt the words slip away from his grasp. "The aliens aren't here yet. We still have time. We can still survive this."

Something flickered across Gates' expression then, something dark and ugly that Ortez couldn't place. It was gone quickly, and he settled back into something that resembled his normal smug, effortless grace. He began to laugh — that low, cruel laugh of his that Ortez had heard so many times before.

" _Christ_ , Ortez, I was joking. God, you're always wound up so tight," he said, though his hand was clearly shaking in Ortez's grip. It felt oddly warm, even through two layers of armor, and the warmth began to spread when Gates half-leaned, half-collapsed against him. He was breathing heavily, and Ortez was surprised to find that he was too.

Gates made no attempt to shake off Ortez's hold. "Fuck," he muttered against Ortez's shoulder. "Fuck." He hooked the fingers of his free hand under Ortez's chest piece to pull him closer, and Ortez didn't resist.

"What are you doing?"

"C'mere. I need — we need to release some tension, right, Sam? Come on."

"Gates," he began, his voice unsteady. "We should be keeping watch."

"Fuck that. You said it yourself, didn't you? We should be safe here for a while."

They needed to be sure, Ortez wanted to tell him.

But he didn't. The world around them was distant, vague, and he felt as if he were burning — the wounds on his face throbbed painfully, his muscles were sore and tense, and something tight gripped him like a vine around his chest. He wrapped his arms around Gates' shoulders and closed his eyes.

Ortez hadn't known what to expect from this sort of thing, but it certainly hadn't been the smell of dirt and sweat and blood, the sharp angles of Gates' armor digging into him, the burning friction of their undersuits and of Gates' calloused palm. Not the urgency, the pain of his wounds, the tightness in his chest. They clung to each other too tightly and rocked against each other a little too hard, and it didn't feel good but it was so overwhelming it drowned out everything else. For a while, that was enough.

Gates finished first, with a sound like a pained grunt, then stroked Ortez roughly until he did too, the rush of pain and pleasure washing over him. In the end, they collapsed onto the floor of the Pelican together, panting. For a moment they stayed there like that; Gates still had an arm around him, and as the fog began to lift from his thoughts, Ortez started to wonder if he should do anything, reach out and touch him, or...

But then Gates got up, quickly and quietly, zipping himself back up and readjusting his armor. Ortez almost expected him to say something — a casual dismissal, one of his usual pointed barbs. But instead he remained silent, looking out into the distance.

Ortez took a deep breath. Was he supposed to feel better now? More relaxed? More fulfilled? Instead he simply felt... he wasn't sure. Strange. Empty, maybe. Still tense. His heart pounded in his chest. If anything, it felt like his first kill on the battlefield — that rush of adrenaline and fear and relief and the slow, creeping knowledge of what he'd done.

"Hey," Gates said, finally. "Get some rest. I'll take first watch."

Ortez rolled over and closed his eyes, and if he felt Gates' stare on his back he didn't say a thing.


	8. Making Out

"What the _fuck_ ," Felix growled the moment Locus jerked back, moving to touch his bloodied lip. He even had the nerve to look surprised, the asshole.

"No, seriously. What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

Locus' expression quickly shifted into a scowl. He looked down at the smear of red on his fingertips. "Shutting you up, clearly."

Felix was still shaking from the surge of adrenaline, the suddenness of his partner moving towards him, the feeling of warmth on his lips, and _honestly_ , what the hell was wrong with him, thinking that just because you fucked somebody a couple times that suddenly gave you the right to...

Fuck.

"Well, I don't know what's going on in that broken goddamn head, but—"

Locus lunged before Felix could react. Felix slammed into the wall, dug his fingers into Locus' shirt in a futile attempt to keep him off, and Locus tightened his grip on Felix's arm.

"Don't," Locus began, forceful and threatening. Felix tensed, bracing himself — but Locus seemed to deflate, dropping his gaze to the floor between them. "Don't..."

He loosened his hold on Felix, moving to step back, and Felix knew suddenly, with a certainty that gripped his every nerve, that he couldn't let him. He wasn't going to let him. Locus' eyes had gone wide and his lip was trickling blood and _fuck it._ Felix grasped Locus' shirt to pull him forward, moved to press his mouth against his, swallowed down his little sound of surprise, and...

Yeah. Yeah, this was better. Easier. Lick the blood from Locus' lip, let the coppery taste linger. Press his tongue against Locus' mouth, move his hand to Locus' shoulder, slowly, gently, firmly, and — there. Easy as twisting a knife. Locus yielded to him, moved along with him as he slid into Locus' mouth, and maybe he'd tightened his grip on his arm again but Felix didn't let himself tense up.

"Don't say I never do anything for you," he said once he pulled away, and slowly guided Locus to his knees.


	9. Atonement

He woke up with gunshots echoing in his head.

For an instant he looked around, searching for — but it was quiet in the cabin of his ship, and he was alone.

He got up and mechanically began to go through the motions. Breathe. Take his helmet off. Clean himself. Shave. His fingers trembled a little around the handle of the razor, but he was used to it; he didn't cut himself, and he didn't think about the coldness of a blade on his skin, the warmth of another hand guiding his. A stranger's face stared at him in the mirror, but that was fine. He had no right to it anymore. Sam Ortez had been a soldier — it was the monster Locus had let himself become who'd committed his atrocities, and it would be him who'd have to make things right.

"And how exactly do you propose to do that, partner?" a familiar voice whispered in his ear. "When you're so broken you can barely keep it together without me?"

The words were mocking, but they were easier to ignore now. He simply closed his eyes and let them wash over him. Felix had been wrong about many things, and his words had always been mocking, even as he held Locus after a bad night, dug his fingers in the back of Locus' neck to force Locus to look at him. And if it helped Locus breathe just a little, helped still the shaking in his hands...

Well, that was fine too. He'd been the perpetrator, not the victim. What right did he have to recoil from his nightmares?

By the time he turned his attention to the ship's console his breaths came easily, and his hands no longer trembled. It was fine. As long as he was still capable of helping others, then everything was fine. Still no sign of the rogue sim troopers, but something else caught his eye. A distress signal. In Spanish, for some reason.

Interesting.

He set the ship to intercept the source of the signal. Someone needed help. He knew what to do, and that was all that mattered. It was becoming easier to help others, and as long as he kept himself going it then would keep getting easier.

Maybe someday it would be enough.


	10. Reluctance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: dubcon, semi-public sex.

He finally found Locus one week later, in a dingy bar sitting on a bar stool and glaring at a half-empty glass of whisky like it had murdered his family and insulted his hair, and god, how fucking cliché was that? He looked like shit, his clothes all rumpled and his shoulders slumped. He hadn't even bothered with the concealer, Felix thought with a rush of vindictive triumph. So much for _I don't drink_ , the self-righteous douche.

"Hey, asshole," said Felix as he slid into the seat next to him, all casual and relaxed as if they were just two friends meeting up for a drink. Locus stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but Felix knew him well enough to notice.

"I thought you said you never wanted to see my face again."

"I say a lot of things."

Locus didn't reply. He turned back to his attempt to stare a hole into the bar counter like he could fucking ignore Felix without repercussion, and Felix felt the bile rise to his throat, bitter and burning. He swallowed it down, forced his voice into a friendly tone, and laid his hand on the counter, making sure to brush his fingers against Locus'. Just the ghost of a touch.

"So, Sam, I've been—"

" _Code names_ ," Locus snapped, drawing a few looks from the other patrons. He stood up suddenly, threw some money on the counter, and turned to leave.

Fucking asshole.

Okay. Fine. Great. Ignoring the stares, Felix grabbed the abandoned glass and downed the rest of the whisky; it burned unpleasantly in his throat. He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Then he stood and followed.

Locus was waiting for him in the empty alley outside, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his eyes grim. In the low light, occasionally illuminated by the odd car zooming past the entrance of the alley, he looked like a figure from a fucking film noir, because of course the asshole couldn't pass up an opportunity to be a dramatic fuck.

"What do you want, Felix?" he said, and he sounded so fucking tired that Felix wanted to laugh.

"I found a new job. Something out there in the colonies. Protection from pirates, that sort of thing, but the pay's good. And it's a two person job."

"No."

"And why the fuck not?"

Locus looked down. "I'm not... doing that anymore. After what happened."

Felix felt his stomach clench, and this time he couldn't stop the bark of laughter from escaping his throat. "Oh? And what exactly do you plan to do instead?"

"I don't know."

"Yeah, I thought so. There's not much else you _can_ do, is there, unless you plan to find a way to make money by staring at a blank wall like back when—"

Before he could finish the sentence Felix felt himself slam into the brick wall, knocking the breath out of him.

"Be _quiet_ ," Locus growled in his face. "I may not know what I'll do, but anything is better than staying here and listening to a _single_ more word out of your mouth."

And Felix felt himself smile, something warm curling in his chest above the adrenaline and the pounding of his heartbeat. Locus loomed over him, tall and imposing, their bodies only inches apart. Close enough that Felix could feel the tension running through him, smell the alcohol in his breath. How much had he had? How much more would it take for him to completely lose control?

Hah.

Felix didn't get drunk. People who knew him always thought otherwise, because people were idiots. No, Felix was perfectly capable of having fun without losing control of himself. Why would he? He had no reason, no desire to ever try to get away from himself, unlike some sad, pathetic assholes he could name who couldn't live with what they were. And yeah, maybe he'd had a few drinks before coming here, maybe he could feel the alcohol burning in his veins. But he knew exactly where his line was. He hadn't lost control ever since...

He dug his fingers into Locus' shirt.

"Yeah, good fucking luck with that. Just look at yourself. Who the hell's gonna work with a violent lunatic like you?"

And there it was. A flash of hurt in Locus' face, quick and fleeting but unmistakable against his scowl. Felix's grin widened.

Time to twist the knife.

"After what happened with Siris?"

It worked like a charm. Locus recoiled, letting go of Felix, and Felix grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back in until he could feel his warmth against him.

"Look, Locus. I get it. I can't go back either, you know." Felix let his voice become soft and understanding as if he were in any way like Locus, still fighting a war in his head that should have ended years ago. Laughter welled up in his chest at the thought. It gripped him, tight and hysterical, made him shake, but he forced it down. He had to be in control. Always in control.

"Let _go_ ," Locus said, but he made no move to pull away.

"Come on, don't be a dick. I'm just trying to help."

Felix buried his face in Locus' shoulder, nipping gently at his neck.

"I... Felix... What are you doing?"

"What do you _think_?" He began to unbuckle Locus' belt. Locus grabbed his wrist, but the grip was slack. "I'm helping you relax. We can't have this conversation with you all wound up like this, can we?"

"I don't... I don't want to have this conversation at all."

Felix slid a hand into Locus' pants.

"Yeah. I can tell what you want instead. God, are you getting hard already?"

Locus' eyes darted back towards the entrance of the alley, but Felix brought him back with a hand on his cheek, digging his nails into Locus' skin and grasping harder with his other hand. Locus growled in response, grabbed Felix's arms and pressed him against the wall until Felix could feel the bricks digging into his back. His attention was now pinpointed on Felix with a sniper's focus, quiet and intense and always, always lethal.

And for one single, chilling moment all Felix wanted to do was push Locus off and run the fuck away and never have to see him ever again and — he couldn't do this. He didn't have to do this. He could to be anywhere rather than trapped between a wall and a dangerous killer. Shit, he could be back in the bar, hooking up with someone with a functioning brain and better tits. He could get the fuck out of there and finally start living in a world without any crazy goddamn douchebags who were five seconds away from snapping and fucking murdering him. He had no reason to stay, now that Siris wasn't there to keep them together. Siris had left them and they'd immediately turned on each other, so why the hell would he want to stay?

But he knew, with all his being, that if he let go then Locus would leave just as Siris had and Felix would have nothing left of what he'd managed to scrape together for himself after all these years — he'd be back to where he was after he'd left the war, lying alone in a shitty apartment and drinking in shitty dives and looking for fights with the drunks outside and nothing to do or feel or — and Locus actually fucking _wanted_ to up and leave him like that, like he'd be better off without him, like...

Dammit. _Dammit._

He took a deep breath, and forced himself to his knees.

"Felix, I don't—" Locus began, but Felix silenced him with his mouth. He sucked him until Locus' protests faded into heavy breaths, and he didn't think about Locus' fingers wrapped around his neck, about the chill in Locus' eyes, about Siris' blood on the floor between them. He didn't gag, even when Locus grabbed his hair and began to thrust into his mouth. God, he was so fucking desperate for him, the asshole who thought he was too good for someone like Felix. As if he wouldn't be so fucking lost on his own. As if he didn't _need_ him.

Well, everyone had their price. Siris had taught him that. And, as he listened to Locus' breaths grow harsh and uneven, Felix knew that he would have one too. He was going to find it, and then everything would be all right.

He dug his fingers into Locus' hips hard and that's when Locus came, with a low groan that made something inside Felix clench. He didn't let himself wince. Swallowed everything down. Then he zipped Locus back up, got to his feet, ignoring the tightness of his pants, and wrapped his arms around Locus as he slumped against Felix. Locus was breathing hard, and for some reason Felix found that he was too.

"There," he whispered into Locus' ear, stroking his shoulders gently, softly, as if he actually meant it. "Better?"

"No," Locus said, but he didn't push him away.

"It's only one job. Just to get us back on our feet. Then we'll both fuck off and we'll never have to see each other again. How's that sound?"

"I told you I don't want to—"

"Yeah? Newsflash, asshole: I don't want to either. What, you think I like you any more than you like me? But we work so well together, and we're pretty great at the whole soldier thing. We can still do good things, be the good guys. Do you want to throw that all away just because Siris wasn't good enough to handle the pressure?"

"No." It was quiet and hesitant, but it was enough. Felix felt himself sag a little with relief. "But I don't know if I can be good anymore. Not after what I've done. After Siris..."

Felix gripped him tighter to steady himself, and maybe he was shaking a bit, but so was Locus. "Hey. It's fine. I can help you with that. That's the whole point — we help each other, just like we used to. You trust me, right?"

"No." But he wrapped his arms around Felix's waist all the same.

And when Felix woke up the next morning with a pounding headache behind his eyes, Locus was still there sleeping beside him. Warm and naked and vulnerable. Felix slid an arm around him, held him tightly, and didn't let go for a long while.


	11. Relief

By the time Locus was finished, the target's struggling had died down and his body hung limp and motionless in his hands. He let it hit the floor with a dull, wet thump.

For a few seconds he stood there, staring at the broken body before him.

Then he felt movement beside him. One of the soldiers they'd been ordered to assist. She winced when he turned towards her. "I'll, uh — I'll go report to home base, sir," she stammered, then bolted from the room as if it were on fire.

And then Locus was alone in the room with the man he'd just killed.

And Felix.

Locus turned to face him, and for a moment he almost expected to see his partner flinch away from him too. To find fear behind his partner's helmet. But Felix only laughed, bright and happy, and Locus felt the tension in his chest melt away.

"Jesus Christ. You really did a number on that guy. So much for quick and efficient. That'll teach him to call you the c-word again, huh?"

"It was..." Locus tried to reach for the right word and came up empty. "Unprofessional."

"Really? We were hired to kill him, and that's what you did. What exactly is the problem here? Because I'm sure as hell not seeing it." Felix laid a hand on his shoulder, and he found himself leaning into it. Blood still dripped from his gauntlets, but Felix's touch was familiar and steady. "And besides, these guys were assholes. I mean, raiding unarmed colonists? They had it coming."

Locus closed his eyes and let himself breathe.

None of that mattered. Why would a weapon care about such things?

When they rejoined the others, word had already begun to spread. Helmets turned towards him. Hushed murmurs followed him when he turned his back. _Monster_ , they whispered among themselves. _Crazy_. But Felix walked beside him, bumping shoulders with him, guiding him with his touch. Commanding his attention until everything else faded into the background.

And when they got back to their quarters Felix kissed him gently, wrapped his arms around him, peeled them both out of their armor. He let Locus pin him to the bed and begged for more, warm and laughing and alive.

"I get it, you know," Felix whispered as they lay together, their bodies entwined. "They don't know anything. We don't need them. We don't need anyone else."

"Shut up," Locus said, and pressed him harder into the mattress. Felix didn't flinch, only laughed and held him tighter, and, for a little while, that was all that mattered.


	12. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: canon character death.

The meddler returns not long after everything has settled.

The other humans have all fled the scene of their final battle by now, to celebrate and mourn in equal measure. Now that the Temple of Communication has fulfilled its function it has fallen silent once more, as it was during the previous millennia. His steps disturb the quiet, just as he and his people once disturbed the temples.

The meddler, however, doesn't seem inclined to disturb more than he needs to, this time. His partner's body lies broken at the foot of the temple; Santa watches silently as he kneels beside it, reaches out as if to touch it, then draws back, looking away.

For a while he stays there, motionless except for his shallow, irregular breaths.

"Why have you returned?"

If the meddler is surprised at Santa's sudden appearance, he doesn't show it. He simply turns to face him and says, "I don't know."

Before, there had been frustration in those words. Now there is only weariness. Santa says nothing, only watches as the meddler reaches out to remove his partner's dented helmet and reveal an ashen, bloody face, frozen in fear and staring emptily at the sky. The meddler turns away from it. He cradles the helmet in his arms as if it were fragile.

"I did the right thing," he says, after a few minutes. It's not a question, but it's quiet, wavering. He looks up at Santa, and he appears to be searching for confirmation.

"Perhaps. It is not my place to say. Human affairs are not my concern." The meddler looks down, deflating, and Santa adds, "But I believe most of your kind would agree that you did."

The answer doesn't bring him comfort. If there is one that would, Santa doesn't have it.

"You said that only a true warrior could activate the temples."

"So my creators thought."

"What does it mean, then? To be a true warrior?"

A good question. His creators had their own ideas, but Santa has begun to doubt their accuracy of late. The wielder of the key was supposed to embody those qualities. But the first two were lacking, in different ways, and this one is too.

"What do you think? What does it mean to you, Samuel Ortez?"

The meddler winces as if struck. "I don't know."

"But you did, once. Do you not remember what you used to fight for?"

The meddler bows his head. His hands shake.

"To protect humanity," he answers after a while, his voice small and hesitant. "To protect my people."

His fingers tighten around his partner's helmet at his words.

"He was never yours," Santa says. He wasn't created for things like gentleness. But he makes an attempt.

"I know that."

It's a lie, of course, but it's an understandable one, and Santa sees no reason not to let him have it.

"There are things you would ask me," Santa says.

He does not need the gateway to know this; the meddler's thoughts are clear enough even without it. He wishes to ask about the partner he hadn't known as well as he thought. About the things that could have been. The things he cannot admit to himself that he longed for. But the meddler doesn't ask. He simply sets the helmet down and rises to his feet, and perhaps it's for the best. The answers would not have made him happy.

"Do you think I could become one?" he asks instead, drawing himself up as if bracing himself for the answer. "A true warrior?"

Another good question, but Santa isn't meant to deal in hypotheticals. There might be potential in the meddler. But so thought another man, once, and in the end it did either of them little good.

"Do you want to try?"

"Yes," the meddler says, and this time his voice is steady.

It is, perhaps, a good sign.

"Then I can show you where to begin."


	13. Scars

They weren't killing him. They weren't killing him, and Ortez couldn't tell why.

He'd stopped fighting back by now. He could barely move, and his helmet screamed warnings in his ears. One of the aliens hit him again, catching him in his broken rib. It took all his focus not to cry out.

Another alien leaned down to grab hold of his helmet. Ortez did try to struggle then, but the others held him down firmly, chattering among themselves in their strange, unpleasant language. They should have been angry at him. Ortez would have understood that — he'd killed their comrades. But they looked down at him as if he were an interesting new toy to pull apart.

As if he were nothing.

The cold air hit his face; it smelled of blood and smoke, and it hurt to breathe. The alien loomed over him, large and snarling. Something glinted in its hand. The combat knife he'd stabbed it with, Ortez realized distantly.

The alien's guttural noises almost sounded like mocking laughter. It lowered the knife, and this time Ortez did scream.

* * *

Locus growled as he pressed Felix's knife against Felix's face. The skin of his cheek dipped slightly under the blade, and the sight was oddly fascinating. It would be so easy. Felix had gone quiet and motionless, but he was still grinning, and it made Locus want to wipe it off his face. It made him want to press down harder, see him helpless and struggling beneath Locus. Pull him apart, show him what it felt like, make him _understand_.

He wondered what it would be like to kill his partner. Sever the only connection he had left.

Would he feel anything at all?

Felix laughed, low and mocking. He thrust his hips up to grind against Locus', reached out to run his thumb across the lines on Locus' face, and Locus felt his fingers shake around the handle.

" _Wow_. If you're trying to prove you're not crazy, then let me tell you, buddy, you're not doing a great job."

Locus hit him with the butt of the knife. Felix's head snapped to the side, blood staining his cheek, but he only laughed harder and dug his nails into the skin of Locus' face. And, as Locus held him down and shut him up, he thought he might begin to understand why.


	14. Decisions

The alien was shaking. That was all Ortez could focus on. It was small — smaller than the aliens they usually fought — and it cowered in the corner of the building they'd shoved it into. It had made noises as they dragged it, loud and scared and desperate, but by now it had gone quiet except for the occasional whimper.

"Christ, man, stop stalling," Gates said, and he clapped a heavy hand on Ortez's shoulder. "I mean, look at this thing. We're basically putting it out of its misery."

"Shut up," muttered Ortez, but there wasn't enough force behind his words. He felt as if he couldn't breathe.

"Come on, Ortez. We have our orders. You know what you have to do."

Ortez took a deep breath. He shrugged off Gates' hand.

He raised his gun.

* * *

Felix looked so small. He'd always seemed larger than life — a solid, unshakeable presence by Locus' side, constantly up in Locus' face, talking and laughing and digging his fingers into Locus' skin until the rest of the world faded away. Now as he knelt there with his hands shaking, cornered by people who could barely be called soldiers, Felix only looked small. Fragile.

Locus could kill him. It would be so easy. Just another bullet — he'd done it so many times before, to so many people. What difference would one more make?

_Caught us a monster, captain._

Felix began to laugh. It washed over Locus, familiar and desperate, and he felt it echo in his chest. He took a deep breath.

_Come on, Ortez._

And threw the gun at Felix's feet.


End file.
